Hello, my friend!
A long time ago in Morocco, the car I was riding in came to a dead end with high walls and graffiti, the kind of place my mother was certain we’d be shot. Then a door opened, a handsome man welcomed us in, and behind that forsaken wall was the most beautiful restaurant I’d ever seen: pools and waterfalls and sumptuous light. I’ve never forgotten it. Something precious can hide in plain sight, behind a door that looks like nothing at all.
↓ In today’s email:
- This week’s inspiration: A room of one’s own
- Latest blog post: Ocean therapy — how salt and sun lift your mood
- What I’m reading this week: The Artist’s Way
This Week’s Inspiration: A Room of One’s Own
Virginia Woolf was right. A woman needs financial independence and a dedicated place to simply be herself. I’ve been thinking about that a great deal lately, because at last I’ve found mine.
I inherited children at age 26. They came as part of the bargain of getting a gorgeous man who would become my husband. At the time, I wasn’t the babysitting type. Back when everyone was rollerblading everywhere, I mostly noticed children in Park Slope as things in my way. It’s not that I had no heart. I just had no wish for reproduction, and no natural affinity for the little ones.
But in short order, I became a stepmother. And among the many things I learned, being suddenly dropped into the world of parenting, was this: my personal space all of a sudden became non-existent. We were sleeping in a wrought iron bed from ABC Carpet, and my stepsons, ages five and seven, would hide under it to jump up and scare me, or peek at me from behind the headboard.
Then came my own biological children. And except for a brief stint during the COVID lockdown, a place of my own simply hasn’t been part of my lexicon since 2001.
But good things come to those who wait. A quarter century later, the tables have turned.
Quietly, and truly surreptitiously, I have turned an outbuilding on our property (the one my children are convinced is full of dead flies and forsaken boxes) into something of my own. Wielding a wet/dry vac, I’ve erased the cobwebs and the desiccated insect carcasses, unfurled an oriental rug that once lived in my Newport studio, and christened the place as mine, with the occasional visit from my husband (ideally when he’s bringing me a latte and the will to unwind).
Our children still think it’s a place to be avoided. I scurry across the lawn, close the door, and from inside I cannot be seen. A couple of the windows sit at such funny angles that it wouldn’t occur to anyone to look for a person hiding among remnants too insignificant to even move to the storage unit.
So on a day like today, beachy and beautiful, I’m scampering home to ensconce myself in my cute little cave. I’ve discovered that the Redwood Library sets out its old periodicals for anyone to take, no need to return them. Perfect for making a collage. So I am weighed down with the Financial Times magazine and back issues of The Cut and Wallpaper, ready to tear and clip and paste while a book plays, rejoicing in the quiet space every woman needs.
Ideally, she doesn’t have to wait until she’s 51. But when grace and space arrive, we are grateful. And in the meantime, I will keep telling my children there are mice in there, just to keep them at bay.
Latest Blog Post
Ocean Therapy: How Salt & Sun Lift Your Mood
After the world’s longest winter, it seems the sun has finally graced us with a shimmering vibrancy we were all so aching for. So many of my clients have said they just feel happier, and I agree. Everything feels lifted. Being close to the water helps. Is that all in our minds? Maybe, maybe not.
As it turns out, there’s real science under the good feeling: even twenty or thirty minutes of sunlight nudges your serotonin up, the negative ions in ocean air may send more oxygen to the brain, and the simple sound of the waves can settle your nervous system into rest. Here’s a blog post for you to read and decide for yourself.
What I’m Reading This Week
The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron
In the evenings, I’ve been reading small amounts of The Artist’s Way, trying to remember my way back to making art. Now, with my she-shack, I finally have a new place to do it.
Connecting to the spirit of art is something I’ve been contemplating. There’s a great deal of art in being a Doctor of Chinese Medicine, and working intuitively with clients is artful, a kind of dance. Still, this book is helping me get closer to better writing, and to making visual art again, too.
So that’s what’s been on my nightstand. What’s on yours?
Until next week, my friend — may you find your own quiet place, behind whatever door looks like nothing at all.
Dr. Catherine